


Surrender

by illwick



Series: Unwind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson, Dog Tags, Dom!John, Dry Humping, Edgeplay, Face-Fucking, Facials, Forced Orgasm, Gunplay, Hair-pulling, Hard Limits, Intercrural Sex, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Military Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Premature Ejaculation, Prostate Massage, Roleplay, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shower Sex, Submission, Subspace, Top John, Uniform Kink, Vibrators, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-06 01:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10322429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock and John take a stab at negotiating a kink.  Three rounds of filthy smut ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a porny one-shot and then manifested into a three-part magnum opus on Sherlock's military kink. Oops.
> 
> Porn with a little plot, for taste.

It's not the first time it had happened. No, it wasn't the first time that Sherlock's attraction to John hit him like a ton of bricks dropped out of the sky.

But even so, it never ceases to amaze Sherlock when it happens to that particular degree. Of course, he's always _attracted_ to John. He has been ever since the day their eyes locked in the lab at Bart's. He'd known instantaneously in that moment that he was _attracted_ to John, in the way that he could be _attracted_ to certain men in a sexual _(boring)_ way (and granted, those instances were certainly few and far between)--but there was nothing inherently special about that initial attraction.

But less than 24 hours later, John Watson locked eyes with Sherlock in the sitting room of the flat that just moments ago became theirs and uttered the phrase, "Oh God, yes," and Sherlock was _gone._ The thrill that ran up his spine in that moment wasn't sparked by the case (though certainly, that added to the excitement), but from that moment forward, John became the be all and end all of Sherlock's sexual desires.

But fast forward 7 years (186 cases, 32 near-death experiences, 1 faked death, 2 temporary exiles, 1 wedding [not theirs], 1 baby [arguably theirs], and 1 mended relationship) later, and Sherlock's knees nearly go out from under him when John walks into their sitting room in military dress.

Luckily his knees don't _actually_ go out from under him, on account of the fact he's currently mid-way through giving Rosie her evening bottle, and she probably would not take kindly to being interrupted and dropped on the floor by a crumpling consulting detective. But Sherlock's throat closes up and his heart skips a beat (an arrhythmia at his age? Unlikely, but certainly feels plausible in the moment) and he feels simultaneously hot and cold all at once and he's tongue-tied and and drowning in lustful endorphins. How is it possible, he thinks, after all this time, John can _still_ reduce him to this?

John looks up from adjusting his jacket cuff. He cocks his head. "Problem?"

Sherlock opens his mouth and tries to speak. He knows he should probably say something, but at this moment the only phrase his lizard brain is supplying is _"Fuck me,"_ which he's pretty sure isn't what John wants to hear when he has to be out the door in 5 minutes. Plus, it bothers John when Sherlock talks dirty with Rosie in the room, despite Sherlock's patient explanations of her current cognitive abilities. ("I just don't want the word _cock_ to be part of her initial vocabulary, Sherlock. Surely you understand that's a bit _not good."_ Sherlock would just roll his eyes and sigh.)

"I...no. Fine. It's all fine. You look...nice."

"Cheers." John smiles at him nonchalantly and turns to grab his coat.

"You sure you don't want to come along? Last chance. Mrs. Hudson did say she'd take Rosie..."

No, Sherlock did not want to come along. They'd actually talked about it openly for once, as was now their habit in these heady days of their rekindled relationship. Before, everything between them had been unspoken--both when they were together before the Fall, and after, when Sherlock returned but still couldn't find the words to say to John what he needed to say.

But that post-mortem message from Mary had changed everything: _"I know you two. I know what you could become."_ So they owed it to her. To do it right, for once in their lives.

So when John had received the invitation to the formal...commemorative...somethingorother (Sherlock had maybe admittedly tuned out while John was explaining what exactly it was) and invited Sherlock to go as his date, Sherlock had flatly declined. As was his habit, John attempted to cajole him into going. But this time, Sherlock finally explained why he truly didn't wish to partake.

"John, I'm not declining because I'm being difficult, or because I don't want you to have a good time, or because I'm jealous of your friends or your past. I'm declining because social interactions in large groups of strangers are difficult...difficult for...for me." He'd avoided John's eyes as he said this. It somehow felt too intimate and too elusive all at once. 

"The way...the way that I am, see, it's...it's not easy to turn off. You know that. And most of the time, when I don't give two shits about the people I'm around, I don't bother to turn it off. If they get offended, it's their problem. But John, when it's...when it's people you care about...I do try. I do try to turn it off. But it's hard, and it's unsettling, and I spent the whole time terrified that I'm going to say or do something that will give away that it's all a sham, and I'm scared I'll upset you or make things difficult for you or that you'll be ashamed of me and I hate that. I hate it. I know I pretend not to care, but I don't like it when you're upset with me. Not when it's about your friends. That's why...that's why I never go out with you for your birthday. Or meet any of your colleagues from the surgery. I just can't...it's too...it's too much." He'd said all of this in one rushing breath, and when he finally had the courage to look back at John, relief swept through him.

John's face was soft and open, and his eyes were wide and understanding. He'd taken Sherlock's hand and kissed his palm. "Thank you for telling me that."

Sherlock had smiled back. "But if it's really important to you--really important--like, Case Above a Seven important, I'll go."

John shook his head. "This one's not all that important, Sherlock. It's just the first time I'll be seeing my Army mates since...since we got back together. And because I never really told them about us before, I wanted to...well, to let them know. About us. But I can do that without you there."

Sherlock inclined his head. "You're going to tell them?"

"I am. They're not a bunch of pigheaded, machismo homophobes, you know. They're actually pretty decent blokes. And you and Rosie are the most important things in my life right now. So it's bound to come up."

Sherlock purses his lips, secretly pleased. "I'm...I'm glad you're telling them. But...if it's all the same to you, I'd still rather stay home."

John had leaned forward and kissed him. "Of course. I let you know next time it's above a Seven."

So two weeks later, John heads out the door without him, and Sherlock is left alone in the sitting room, feeding a wriggling baby, while his lizard brain attempts to process his visceral reaction to Captain John Watson in his dress uniform.

The event was only scheduled to last for four hours. All Sherlock had to do was finish feeding Rosie, put her down, perhaps tidy up the flat a bit (maybe take care of that mold experiment he'd left fermenting in the kitchen that John had threatened to set fire to), and then John would be home. Still in that uniform. And then Sherlock could make all the demands for a vigorous fucking that he wanted to, and John was sure to oblige.

But alas, it was not to be. As if sensing his desperation, Rosie flat-out refuses to be put down. She screams inconsolably to the point she spits up her entire dinner, necessitating the changing of the sheets in her crib, her onesie, and Sherlock's shirt as well. He makes a new bottle which she refuses to eat and bats animatedly out of his hands, wailing as though her life depends on it.

At one point, Mrs. Hudson pops in.

"Having a fuss?"

"Mrs. Hudson. Thank God you're here. I think she's broken."

Mrs. Hudson takes one look at her. "No, not broken, dear. Just fussy. She'll be fine, just let her cry it out."

"But I _have_ been letting her cry it out! For two hours! How much more crying can she possibly need to do?"

"She's a baby, dear. Hard to say."

"But it's completely _illogical,"_ he hisses, pulling at his hair. "She has everything an organism needs to survive! What biological incentive could she possibly have to cry?"

"Well, who knows what's going on inside that funny little head of hers?" Mrs. Hudson shrugs and turns to walk down the stairs.

"Wait! Where are you going? Aren't you going to help me?"

"Oh, sorry dear, dinner plans."

"But...but..."

"Goodnight!"

Sherlock is left stammering in her absence.

Finally, two more hours of constant lullaby-singing and rocking later, he manages to get Rosie into her crib for the night. Exhausted, he staggers down the stairs to the bedroom and falls face-down into bed, still fully dressed.

He vaguely registers John arriving home sometime after that, smelling faintly of whiskey and whistling to himself as he changes out of his uniform and into his pajamas. Yet the blazing flames of arousal Sherlock had felt earlier in the evening when confronted with the uniform had been thoroughly extinguished by the reality of caring for a wailing child for four hours, and the idea of sex seems so remote it's almost foreign. Resigned, he rolls over and falls back asleep.

The uniform lingers vaguely in the back of his mind. But the next day, a new case picks up, and the game is on. His lizard brain retreats back to its cave.

Which is why, nine days and one arrested Bulgarian smuggler later, Sherlock is absolutely gobsmacked when he arrives back at the flat after giving his statement at the Yard to find John standing in their sitting room wearing a pair of camouflage fatigues, a white undershirt, boots, and--breathtakingly--his dog tags. Sherlock stops dead in his tracks.

"Welcome home, soldier."

Sherlock cocks his head cautiously to the side. "John?"

"Not today. Today you'll be referring to me as 'Captain.' Is that clear?"

"Yes...Captain." Sherlock is slightly torn. John in the fatigues is undeniably sexy, something straight out of his fantasies, his toned shoulders and broad chest on display, his stance confident and gaze leveling. But...John calling him "soldier"? That felt...odd. But if this was something John was into, by God, he'd give it a try.

"Good. Remove your coat."

Sherlock complies.

"Kneel."

Sherlock approaches him and kneels at John's feet, cautiously. He looks up, awaiting further instructions. This isn't so far off-base from things they'd experimented with in the past; now's usually the time John will order Sherlock to suck him off. But instead:

"10 push-ups. Now."

"...I..."

"Did I stutter."

John's tone is utterly arresting. He's using his Captain Voice, the one that makes Sherlock go weak all over, and he can't resist him, not now.

Meekly, Sherlock drops forward and proceeds with the push-ups. As he completes the last one, John shoves his boot in front of his face.

"Now, lick."

Sherlock pauses. This isn't what he wants. He's turned on by John in the uniform, by John in fatigues, by John's Captain voice, all of it, but this...this feels wrong, it isn't what he likes, it's taking that and twisting it all up and it's not right, it's not _right..._

"John, stop."

The boot immediately recedes and John's arms are around his shoulders pulling him up into a sitting position. John is crouching in front of him, eyes wide and inquiring.

"Are you alright?"

"I...yes? But that's not....I don't...I don't like that."

John swears quietly under his breath, then pulls Sherlock up to stand. He's blushing, clearly flustered.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I should have...shit. I should have asked. But...I saw how you reacted to my uniform the other night, and I thought...I thought it might be a kink you'd want to explore?"

"It is! It is!" Sherlock's desperate to convey what he wants, but he can't find the words, his head's all jumbled up in a combination of arousal and embarrassment and he wishes he could just melt into the floor. "I just..."

John lets out a long, slow breath. "Okay. I think we...I think we should actually talk about this. I'm going to go change out of these clothes. Why don't you put the kettle on and make yourself some toast. And we'll get this sorted."

Sherlock nods, relieved.

John's been doing research about this element of their relationship. Sherlock can tell. Ever since they fell back into the pattern of exploring this dynamic between them, John has suddenly become quite knowledgable about the ins and outs of _power dynamics,_ and Sherlock's no fool. He knows John must be doing the research on his work computer (hopefully he's being smart enough to use the wireless network, Sherlock hopes, for his own sake), because Sherlock's efforts to review John's search history on his laptop at home had turned up nothing. 

Sherlock supposes he could do his own research as well, but he knows he'd be consumed by it. With something like this, he could tell he'd fall into one of his internet wormholes and become obsessed for days, analyzing data and viewpoints and various bodies of research. But he doesn't want to do that: for this particular thing, he wants John to lead. He simply wants to sit back and let John take the wheel and steer. And luckily, John seems happy to oblige.

Sherlock busies himself with toast and tea in the kitchen, then meets John back in the sitting room. John is in his chair, dressed in his civilian clothes again (thankfully), but his posture is still slightly stiff. Sherlock hands him a mug of tea, then sits down in his own chair opposite John.

There's a beat.

Finally, John speaks.

"Okay, so...military kink? Was I totally off-base there? Were my deductions wrong?"

"Not completely wrong, no."

"But I missed something?"

Sherlock smiles. "There's always something."

John returns his smile. "Okay. So: What we tried back there isn't what you want. Can you tell me...what you do want?"

Sherlock stares into his tea, then takes a long sip. The silence feels deafening.

"I like your uniform. And I...I...Sometimes I feel like..." He starts jiggling his left leg absent-mindedly, and wrings his hands around his mug of tea.

It's all too much. Sherlock is still pretty wound up from the adrenaline high of the case. He'd been craving a cigarette his entire way home from the Yard and had been glad that John was waiting for him with an acceptable substitute (sex), but now he's without both and John is asking him to _think_ and _talk_ and _explain himself--_

"Alright, let's pause." John's voice is level and soothing. "Instead of telling me what you want, how about you tell me what you _didn't_ like about what we just tried?"

There. That's easier. Some of those websites John's been reading must not be total rubbish after all.

"I didn't like...I don't want to be humiliated."

"Ah. So the whole 'drill sergeant' thing I was going for back there was probably a bit not good."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. Not good." But he fells compelled to elaborate. "I don't mind it when you boss me around a bit when we're...when we're having sex after a case. You ordering me to suck you off or fuck myself on your cock is fine." John's blushing, but Sherlock doesn't allow himself to get sidetracked. "I like it when you're a bit rough with me then--physically. Pulling my hair, holding me down, tying me up, that's...fine, that's all fine."

"Okay." John is trying to keep his voice steady, but Sherlock detects the undertone of heat in it. "So if we do some of that--what we've been doing up until this point--just, with my uniform on...that's something you'd like?"

Sherlock nods.

John clears his throat. He clearly has another question, but he's fidgeting now, too--they're both clearly fighting arousal, struggling to stay on task.

"And during the times that I'm wearing the uniform...do you...want to call me Captain?"

"Yes." The word rushes out of Sherlock's mouth before he even has a chance to contemplate his response. He can't count the number of times John's had him on his hands and knees moaning incoherently, or tied to the headboard begging helplessly, and Sherlock's bitten back the urge to call him Captain for fear John would be blindsided by it and stop fucking him. It was too great a risk, and he was too distracted during sex to properly deduce the odds. What if John didn't want that? Sherlock holds his breath.

An even deeper flush spreads across John's cheekbones. "Good. Okay. I'd...I think I'd like that too."

Sherlock grins at him like a fool.

"So in those situations...what should I call you?" John inquires. Sherlock stares at him quizzically. "I mean, in the scenario that I'm being, um, _Captain..._ who are you? Are you my subordinate? Do you want...do you want me to call you dirty names?"

"No! No, I...I want you to. I want to be. I want. I..." Why must this be so _difficult?_ Sherlock slams his mug down on the table and threads his fingers into his hair, pulling tightly at the strands. He squeezes his eyes shut. The thought of John calling him terrible names upsets him, it reminds him of Seb _(unacceptable),_ that would be _horrible,_ that would be--

"Hey, hey, none of that." John's crouched in front of him, holding him gently by the wrists, pulling his hands away from his hair. "We don't have to do any of that."

"Alright. I. The thing is...I don't want us to be play-acting at being other people. I still want us to be us. I want me to be me and you to be you, just...the version of you that pulls rank. Like that one time at the military base at Baskerville."

"Oh, you liked that did you?" John winks roguishly at him.

"Would have thought I made that obvious, considering how we celebrated wrapping up that case." They'd had a marathon sex session in their room at the Cross Keys Inn, which resulted in the breaking of one of the pathetically flimsy twin beds they'd be relegated to for lack of a double.

"Well, there were a lot of factors in play at that point. We'd just started having sex a few weeks earlier. I figured you were still celebrating the end of your dry spell."

"Dry spell? Who says I had a dry spell?" Sherlock spits back in mock offense.

"Oh, no one, just another of my brilliant deductions."

Sherlock lets out a good-natured _harumph,_ and John returns to his chair.

Sherlock's feeling calmer now, though still a bit overheated--is it warm in here? He shakes the thought away.

John picks up his tea again. "Alright. Is there anything else you'd like to bring up? As long as we're doing this."

There isn't, really. Not really. Well, there _was_ the one thing, the one thing that had lingered in his mind ever since that first case they'd solved together, that one thing that never failed to get Sherlock hot and bothered, but... would that be too much? A bridge too far?

John raises his eyebrows expectantly.

What the hell.

"Your gun."

John's expression changes instantaneously. Sherlock sees the tightness around his eyes, notes the way he leans back slightly, sees the way his knuckles whiten around his cup.

"My gun."

"Yes. I...I like it when you use your gun. It could be unloaded, of course," he rushes to amend.

John is quiet for a long time. Sherlock hears the rumble of a lorry driving past outside the window of the flat. It seems completely surreal that there's a whole world revolving outside, and they're in here doing... this. Sherlock tries not to panic.

Finally, John speaks. When he does, it's with a slow, deliberate air.

"I think that's a hard limit for me."

"Hard limit?"

"It means an absolute no."

Sherlock feels like he's been dipped in ice water. He's embarrassed, he's pushed John too far, John will surely not want to do _any_ of this with him now.

"Oh. Alright. Okay. That's fine. All fine." He moves to stand. He needs to walk away.

"Wait--give me a chance to explain."

Sherlock pauses. John presses his lips together. He gazes into his mug, and thoughtfully swills his tea. Finally, he begins to speak.

"I like what we've been doing, Sherlock. I liked it years ago, back before you went away, and I like what it's become now. I like that it's not what we do all the time, but I like that it's our...unique way of unwinding after a case. It makes me feel close to you. It makes me trust you. It makes me feel good that you trust me to do that with you."

Sherlock nods cautiously.

John soldiers on. "I like being rough with you. I do. It turns me on when you struggle, and it turns me on even more when you submit. That dynamic between us is something I've never experienced before. And I love it."

Sherlock nods again.

"But...to me, there's a big difference between holding you down for a bit of a struggle in some handcuffs, and role-playing a non-consensual encounter with you at gunpoint."

Sherlock feels like his brain has screeched to a halt.

"Wait! No! That's not...that's not what I meant!"

John now looks completely flummoxed. "Then what did you mean?"

"I just meant...I meant you could have your gun. With you. Not even in your hands. Maybe just somewhere nearby. Just as a...reminder. Of how I feel about you when you use it."

"Oh!" John's brow furrows, and he pauses to think. "I suppose? It'd have to be unloaded, of course--"

"Of course."

"--but...yes. I could try and work that in."

"Alright then."

"Alright then."

They exchange smiles. They're shy smiles, a little awkward, but Sherlock's too overcome with relief to care.

John puts down his tea on the table. 

"Well. I think we're a little too off-track to get into this today, but how about I join you in the shower? Relieve some of that tension of yours? You're still wound up from the case, I can tell."

Sherlock's slightly disappointed, but acquiesces. John makes it up to him with a perfectly pleasant (if vanilla) round of intercrural sex in the shower.

Of course, the next two weeks are some of their busiest ever. Three cases come in simultaneously the next day, each intriguing in its own right, and Sherlock devotes himself single-mindedly to the Work. He's vaguely aware of his attraction to John at sporadic intervals (pressed together as they hide in the broom closet of a corrupt MP's country estate, knees brushing against one another under the table at Ottolenghi during a stakeout, the feeling of John's chest against his back as he leans over him to review evidence), but the attraction is fleeting, as it always is during a case. It's business as usual.

Sherlock eats little and sleeps less. John frets and flusters and falls asleep at inopportune times. Sherlock smokes. John complains.

By the time they've wrapped up the third case, they're both at their wits' end. John insists Sherlock give their statement at the Yard while he returns to Baker Street to check on Rosie, who'd been staying with Mrs. Hudson on and off for the duration of the cases. Sherlock begrudgingly agrees, sits through Lestrade's abhorrently boring questioning, then finds himself practically vibrating out of his skin on the cab ride home.

He's not sure when the last time was he ate. He vaguely recalls John handing him some sort of biscuit after snatching a cigarette out of his hand on...Tuesday? Wednesday? What day was it? He's too disorientated to care anymore.

He arrives back at Baker Street and shoves a wad of cash at the driver, then trudges up the stairs. Flinging the door open, he stops dead in his tracks.

John is standing in the sitting room, in his full dress uniform.

All the breath leaves Sherlock's body.

"Welcome home, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinks, willing his brain to reboot. Strangely, he can only formulate one coherent thought. "Where's Rosie?"

"It's Friday. It's Molly's day to take her."

"Right. Right." Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe. John's gaze is leveling him, making him weak in the knees. It takes every once of willpower he has to not just drop down on the spot.

John takes a step forward.

"Are you coming inside?"

"Yes...Captain."

The word hangs in the air, and it feels like an electrical current has lit the room. John's shoulders set, and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. Sherlock's pants are beginning to feel uncomfortably tight.

"Remove your coat." Sherlock does so with such haste his left arm gets caught in the sleeve, and for a moment he flails awkwardly before righting himself, breathing more heavily than the situation should warrant.

John is smiling at him. He's seated himself in his chair, legs spread slightly, erection tenting the front of his slacks.

"Come here and kneel down."

Sherlock stands in front of him and drops to his knees, relief spreading through his body, warm and comforting. God, this is going to be incredible. John looks amazing, something right out of Sherlock's fantasies, his uniform bringing out the color in his eyes, which are boring into Sherlock--

"Suck me off."

Sherlock scrambles to undo John's belt and part his fly, freeing his erection as hastily as possible. His mouth is watering obscenely. He cannot thing of anything in the entire world that he would rather do.

"Hands behind your back. I want them to stay there unless I say otherwise. Understood?"

"Yes, _Captain."_

He says _Captain_ in a low growl, pornographic and laced with intent. John's eyes are fixed on his mouth. He wets his lips and leans forward, smirking, and swallows John down to the root.

John's hands fly to his hair immediately, and Sherlock smiles in gratification. Usually it takes him a few sucks at least to get John desperate enough to grab him, but it appears he's already there. Sherlock closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of John's fingers threading through his follicles, tightening, controlling the pace.

Sherlock feels like he's floating. There's nothing but this now, nothing but the feeling of John in his mouth and John's hands in his hair and the way John's sighs sound from above him. Sherlock wants it to be _good,_ he wants to make it _so good_ for John, wants him to crave this, wants John to use him over and over...

Suddenly, John is pulling Sherlock off of him, and Sherlock gasps at the loss. He opens his eyes and blinks up at John uncomprehendingly.

"You're doing such a good job, Sherlock. Such a good job, I couldn't help but think you might be able to help me out with something else I need."

With that, he reaches beside his chair and picks up a small case. He opens it and pulls out his gun.

Sherlock is struck dumb. His brain is offline entirely, his mouth is dry, and all the blood in his body has rushed south and he is completely, entirely incapacitated.

John looks down at him, smiling knowingly--there's no way he could mistake the gobsmacked expression on Sherlock's face for anything other than intense arousal.. "You see, I'm afraid I've been neglecting to clean my gun as regularly as I should. I thought you could help me make that right."

Nonchalantly, he pulls a cleaning cloth from the case and begins to polish the weapon with long, slow strokes. Sherlock trembles. The sight of John handling his firearm whilst wearing his uniform too much, _surely_ Sherlock is about to combust on the spot.

He wills himself to speak. "I...yes. I can. I can help. What. Did you...have in mind, Captain?"

John grins lazily at him. "Well, as we always used to say in the Army, the best polish is a bit of spit."

Sherlock gasps audibly.

John pauses, and Sherlock sees hesitation flicker across his face. He assesses that John's worried he's gone too far.

"Okay?" John asks hesitantly.

Sherlock can't respond fast enough. He feels like he's about to burst into flames with the sheer heat of his arousal and the urgent need to convey to John that this is exactly _\--exactly--_ what he needs. "Yes! Yes, God, yes, please, please John _\--Captain--_ yes, God, I--"

"Shhhh, okay. Okay, Sherlock. Easy, now. Deep breath."

Sherlock forces himself to slow down and breathe steadily. 

John tosses aside the cleaning cloth and lowers the gun to his lap, beside his erection, pointing it at Sherlock.

"Lick it."

Sherlock leans forward and slowly licks the length of the barrel, the feeling of John's erection pressing against his cheek as he does so sending shivers down his spine. He licks again, the sensation of the metal cool and enticing beneath his tongue, a sharp juxtaposition to the pulsing heat of John's cock.

"Beautiful. Now lick me, too."

Sherlock switches his attention over to John's erection, licking from base to tip, then back down again. He repeats until John gently taps the gun against his cheek. He switches his attention back over to the gun.

Sherlock is gone. The arousal coursing through him is so strong he feels as though the entire universe has collapsed down into this infinitesimal moment, and it's _too much_ and _not enough_ and _oh God_ the things John does to him. He is everywhere and nowhere and he cannot imagine how he ever spent one day without John Watson in his life. The thought makes him whimper.

John catches him by the chin and tilts his face up so they're making eye contact. Slowly, gently, he pulls Sherlock's jaw down to part his lips, and then gently eases the muzzle of the gun into his mouth.

"Okay?" John's eyes are earnest and kind. Sherlock nods and leans forward, taking the muzzle deep into his mouth down to the barrel and sucking, fellating the gun with renewed enthusiasm.

"Jesus Christ," John murmurs above him, and Sherlock grins internally, pleased with himself. The way he feels in this moment--John is feeling it, too. This experience is mutual. He is in this _with_ John. He takes the gun deeper.

"Now suck me." John pulls Sherlock off the gun and presses his cock into his mouth, and Sherlock takes him down all the way, until he feels John hit the back of his throat, and swallows enthusiastically.

"God, just like that. Keep doing that."

Sherlock bobs up and down a few times, then switches back over to the gun, then back over to John's cock. He mind is hazy and disorientated with lust, and he loses himself in the loop of power and pleasure, surrendering to the sensation. He can't decide which feels better in his mouth; the harsh, cool metal of the firearm or the warm flesh of John's cock. He's glad he doesn't have to choose.

He's not sure how long he carries on for. He's vaguely aware that his breathing has become labored and he's making a high, whining noise in the back of his throat. His mouth is obscenely full of saliva, and he feels some of it escaping and making its way down his chin. He can't be arsed to care about any of it. It's too _good,_ so damn _good..._

Just then, he feels a pressure between his legs, and he snaps back to reality. John is pressing his foot against Sherlock's erection, providing just the slightest hint of pressure, but it sends Sherlock spiraling. He pulls back, gasping for air, eyes wide and bewildered as he attempts to process the new sensation.

"Do you want to come like this?" John asks him.

Sherlock nods vigorously. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

"Okay. Get yourself off against my leg. Don't stop sucking. Keep your hands behind your back."

Sherlock spreads his knees more, bracketing John's leg, and leans forward slightly to press his erection against him. He gives an experimental thrust, and he can't help but cry out. It feels _incredible,_ beyond incredible. He hadn't been aware of how achingly hard he was before, but now that it's been brought to his attention, he can barely think of anything else. He thrusts again and cries out once more, looking up and meeting John's eyes.

John is staring down at him in rapt attention, pupils blown wide, lips parted, drinking in the sight of Sherlock before him. The thought of being _watched_ by John while he's like this--on his knees, thoroughly debauched--Sherlock's brain seems to spark and crackle. 

But...there's something he was supposed to be doing, wasn't there? Something besides mindlessly humping John's leg like a dog? But...what was it? He had instructions, John had given him instructions, but they felt so far away...he can't stop himself now, he thrusts over and over, harder each time, desperately seeking relief from the pressure in his groin. He's crying out pathetically, trying to convey to John with just his eyes that he's _trying_ here, but he's _lost..._

John takes mercy on him and threads his fingers through his hair, and directs Sherlock's mouth back onto his cock. Oh, God, _yes,_ that was it, sucking, he was supposed to be sucking, bringing John pleasure. He doubles down on his ministrations, and John moans above him. John presses the muzzle of the gun against Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock hears the unmistakable sound as he flicks off the safety.

It's over quickly from there. Sherlock thrusts with wild abandon against John's leg, seeking his pleasure, moaning deliriously around John's cock, mind numb with the thrill of the gun against his cheek. It doesn't take long until the friction gets the best of him and he comes for what feels like ages inside his freshly-pressed trousers, rutting frantically against John's leg, chasing the last ghostly remnants of pleasure to the very end.

He doesn't have any time to regain his bearings before John moves. John tosses the gun aside and stands up in one quick motion, and Sherlock drops back to rest on his heels, winded from the intensity of his orgasm. Sherlock feels like he's on the brink of collapse, but John just grabs him roughly by the hair, tilts his face upwards, and then takes his own rigid cock in his hand.

Sherlock is too blissed out to do anything besides watch as John jerks himself off over him, fingers twisting in Sherlock's hair to hold him tightly in place, face upturned a few inches from John's cock. Sherlock at least has the presence of mind to lick his lips and open his mouth the way John likes, and then yes, there, that's it, John's brow furrows and his eyes narrow and his fingers tighten in Sherlock's hair and then John shouts and he's coming all over Sherlock's face with a look of utter bliss.

It's eerily quiet in the aftermath. They're both breathing as though they've run a marathon. Sherlock notes John's face is flushed--he's clearly slightly embarrassed by what they've just done (though Sherlock can't for the life of him figure out why--after all, John's not the one on his knees with come in his pants and all over his face), but there's no tightness at the edges of John's eyes to suggest he has any regret about it.

Finally, Sherlock unfreezes. He licks his lips. The come tastes salty but strangely satisfying.

John's fingers loosen slightly in his hair.

"Lovely. Lovely," John murmurs, almost to himself, gazing down at Sherlock with a look that Sherlock has come to recognize as _adoration._ John absentmindedly swipes his finger through the streaks of come that landed on Sherlock's cheek, then offers his finger to Sherlock. Sherlock takes it in his mouth and gently sucks. His brain feels mercifully quiet.

John pulls his finger away and steps back to release Sherlock entirely, tucking himself back into his pants. Sherlock feels suddenly unstable and tilts forward, bracing himself with his hands on the floor, attempting to recover his bearings. He's still breathing hard, and it sounds unnaturally loud to him in the surrounding silence.

Finally, John speaks. "I want you to go get cleaned up in the shower. You have 7 minutes to be back out here in the sitting room, naked. Then, you're going to have something to eat. We'll continue after that. Understood?"

Sherlock wills himself to respond. When he does, it sounds breathless and soft. "Yes. Yes, Captain."

"Good."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John presents Sherlock with a new challenge.

The surreal floating feeling doesn't dissipate as he makes his way to the shower, but the strict timeline John gave him is enough to keep him grounded in reality. He only has 7 minutes--well, 5 minutes and 52 seconds once he's made his way to the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes--to get himself adequately clean and ready for John. 

There's no time for daydreaming or reveling under the steam. He scrubs himself down with sandalwood soap, taking care to clean every last remnant of come off his face. He doesn't have time to wash his hair properly, so he skips that part altogether--it'd just get frizzy if he returned to the sitting room with it still wet, he reasons. Instead, he rinses off the remainder of the soap, then turns his attention to his arse.

He's not sure what exactly John has planned for them this afternoon, but he's fairly certain it will involve penetrative intercourse at some point, so he takes extra care with this step. He soaps himself thoroughly, balls to arse, and feels himself blush as he spreads his cheeks to allow the water to flow freely over him. He thinks of how it will feel when John does this to him, and his cock twitches with interest.

But there's no time for that. He has 3 minutes and 21 seconds left, and he doesn't want to keep John waiting. Without hesitation, he begins to finger himself, gently opening himself with his right hand while holding his cheeks apart with his left.

It's not sexual, not really. Though his breath stutters as he presses deep inside himself, his goal isn't preparation, per se--that's strictly John's territory. He simply needs to be clean and ready for John to use however he deems fit. The thought sends a shiver down his spine.

He finishes with 1 minute and 8 seconds to spare. He shuts off the water and towels himself off, then makes his way back to the sitting room.

John is setting two plates laden with sandwiches down on the coffee table. The alarm on his wristwatch goes off. He turns and sees Sherlock hovering in the doorway, and he breaks into a smile.

"Just in time," he murmurs, and approaches Sherlock to press a firm kiss to his lips. "You look gorgeous."

"So do you," Sherlock responds, without a hint of sarcasm. John's still in his uniform, and the mere sight of it has Sherlock rising to half mast before they've even begun.

John kisses him again, with more tongue this time, and Sherlock lets himself melt into it. It feels amazing to press his naked body against John's uniform; he can feel every button, every seam, every cut of its rigid form against him, and the thought of it makes him weak. He must look utterly debauched, he thinks, naked and wanton in comparison to John's composed state. He whines and thrusts his hips forward, seeking friction against John.

"Ah ah ah. Not yet. Food first." John steps away, and Sherlock all but whimpers. "Eat your sandwich and drink that entire glass of water." John gestures towards the food on the coffee table. 

Sherlock resists the urge to pull a face. He's not hungry, not in the slightest, but he knows John makes him eat whenever they're doing this to avoid Sherlock passing out on him midway through (which, Sherlock mentally acquiesces, would be a bigger nuisance than a slight delay before round two). He plops down on the sofa and begrudgingly makes quick work of the sandwich.

John sits beside him, eating his own sandwich, looking utterly unfazed by the entire situation, as though the two of them make a habit of lounging about their sitting room with John in full military regalia and Sherlock naked as the day he was born, munching on sandwiches and discussing the weather. The thought makes Sherlock snort with laughter.

John turns to him, amused. "Something funny?"

Sherlock grins. "No. No, just...good. This is good."

John grins back. "Good."

They finish their sandwiches. John sets his plate back down on the coffee table and sits up straight. Just like that, Sherlock is utterly transfixed.

"Alright. Have you had enough to eat?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Ready to continue?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Alright then. Stand." Sherlock scrambles to his feet so quickly he nearly loses his balance.

John looks him up and down appraisingly from his seat on the sofa. Sherlock shivers, suddenly feeling exposed in the bright afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows. He's not fully hard, not yet, but having John's eyes on him is causing him to swell with interest without so much as a finger laid on him.

John sits back and smiles. "Alright, Sherlock. I'm going to fuck you now." _Oh God, yes._ "But here's the deal: I can't be making a mess of this uniform. So unlike usual, you won't be getting yours and then lying back and waiting for me to finish. You're not to come while I'm inside you, that will dirty up my clothes. Do you understand? You're going to wait until I've finished fucking you. Then I'll let you come. But only when I say so." 

"Yes, John." He's so turned on, it barely comes out as a whisper.

They've never done this before. John's right: even outside of the times they're playing with power dynamics, Sherlock gets off on overstimulation; he loves it when John sucks him off and then fucks him right afterwards, when he's pliant and spent. Or if John fucks him from the start, Sherlock always wants to come first, then lie back and enjoy the ride while John gets his. But today, John's turning it all on its head. It's a challenge. Sherlock vows to rise to the occasion.

"Lovely. Now, come here, you. Let me get my hands on this gorgeous body." John grasps Sherlock's hands and pulls him down onto the couch with him, and Sherlock goes willingly, straddling John with his legs spread wide to bracket John's. He settles into John's lap, gasping quietly when their cocks brush one another, John's still separated from his by the layers of his uniform.

John kisses Sherlock slowly and deeply, running his hands reverently up and down Sherlock's body, from his arse to his back to his shoulders and back down again. Sherlock can feel the way John's fingers stutter over the scars that mar his back, souvenirs from his time in Serbia, and the sensation sends a shiver down his spine. He used to hate his scars, he used to be ashamed of them, hide them, dread John ever finding out about their existence. But once they'd rekindled their relationship in the wake of Mary's passing, John had done nothing but worship the scars, and Sherlock now feels a sharp twist of pride every time John lavishes them with attention.

In no time at all, Sherlock is gasping into John's mouth, thrusting lazily against him, enjoying the slick _pushpull_ of their tongues entwining. Finally, John pulls away and reaches into the sofa cushions to pull out the bottle of lube they keep stashed there. The _snick_ of the cap elicits a near-Pavlovian response from Sherlock, who spreads his legs wider at the promise of what's to come.

John slicks up a single finger and reaches around to Sherlock's entrance. Using his right hand to pull Sherlock's cheek aside, he presses his finger all the way into him in a single, deliberate movement.

Sherlock nearly comes on the spot. He grits his teeth and sucks in a sharp breath, and John squeezes his arsecheek encouragingly, pulling him further open.

"You alright, there?"

Sherlock opens his eyes--he hadn't realized he'd been squeezing them shut. "I'm...I'm close. I need...I need to calm down."

"Mmm, alright. Shift back a bit here." John adjusts Sherlock slightly so that their cocks aren't exactly in line anymore. "Little less friction this way. Now, I'm going to want your cock back on mine as soon as you're ready, but this will give you a chance to calm down and get control of yourself. But I'll leave you in change of making that decision."

"Yes, J--Captain. Yes, Captain," Sherlock breathes.

"Alright then." John kisses him deeply and then proceeds to begin to thrust his finger in and out of Sherlock, crooking it slightly and hitting all the right angles.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and _howls._ He desperately wants friction on his cock, but what John is doing inside him is _so goddamn good_ he's afraid he'll just lose control and make a mess of everything. What in the hell is John Watson doing to him? This is _maddening!_

John withdraws his finger and then reaches around to add more lube, this time returning and penetrating Sherlock with two. He scissors and twists them, brushing against Sherlock's prostate with expert precision, and Sherlock can barely control himself. He's whining, a high, solid sound in the back of his throat, and thrusting back onto John's fingers with a reckless kind of abandon.

"Shhhh, shhhh, Sherlock, I need you to calm down. Here. Let's put that mouth of yours to good use." With the hand that's not inside Sherlock, John reaches up around his own neck and pulls out... _his dog tags._ Unceremoniously, he stuffs them into Sherlock's gaping mouth.

"Keep these in your mouth. That's an order. I need to get you ready to take my cock, and we're never going to get there if you keep making those sounds."

Sherlock can't respond. He's on another level, somewhere far, _far_ away, the taste of John's dog tags against his tongue transporting him to some alternative plane of arousal he didn't even know existed. Blearily, he blinks twice and nods.

"Good." Sherlock is distantly aware of John applying more lube to his fingers and then pressing into Sherlock with three, using his free hand to hold Sherlock's arsecheeks open, leaving him almost painfully exposed. John thrusts his fingers in and out slowly, giving Sherlock time to adjust to the burn and stretch, but Sherlock hardly notices. He's too busy cataloguing the way John's name engraved into the metal of the tags feels against his tongue, the way the chain of the tags feels against his teeth, gritty and harsh. What's going on in his arse feels like a vague afterthought.

He's not sure how much time passes, but eventually he notices how open and receptive he is to John's fingers. John's penetrating him with three easily now, thrusting in and out, and he's gazing up at Sherlock with glazed eyes. Sherlock stares back down at him, awestruck.

"That's it. Gorgeous. Ride me now, yeah?" Sherlock nods a vague affirmation and begins to raise and lower himself onto John's fingers, taking them even deeper than before. He braces his hands on John's shoulders and leans back as far as he can without letting the dog tags slip from his mouth, and rolls his hips, pulling John's fingers into him further.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. Jesus. That's it, sweetheart. Just a little more now. Then you can have my cock."

Sherlock redoubles his effort, raising and lowering himself faster than before, and adjusts the angle so that his cock is brushing against John's, now straining obscenely against his formal trousers. Sherlock's not worried about coming anymore. He's transcended the urge, and he feels utterly wrecked but in control.

Finally, John seems satisfied. He withdraws his fingers and stills Sherlock's hips, then reaches down to unfasten his belt and flies. He pulls his erection free.

"Alright, Sherlock. Remember the rules. You make me come. You don't get to come. You will not soil my uniform like that. I'm your Captain, and I won't withstand that level of disrespect. Understood?" 

Sherlock nods. With that; John pours a bit more lube in his hand, slicks himself up, and positions himself at Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock lowers himself down.

And _God,_ it's good. He has to bite down on the dog tags to keep himself from wailing as he takes every inch of John in one slick slide. It stretches and burns, but he presses through it, reveling in the feeling of John filling him so completely. Finally, he's seated against John's thighs. He stares down at him, awaiting encouragement.

John is breathing heavily, obviously fighting for control as well. His hands roam back to cup Sherlock's arsecheeks and pull them wide apart, then his fingers prod the place that they're joined, slick with lube. John moans, letting his fingers continue to circle his penetration of Sherlock, almost as if he can't believe he's truly inside him.

Sherlock still doesn't move. He sucks the dog tags deeper into his mouth, letting the sensation ground him. Finally, John returns his hands to Sherlock's hips and he stares straight up into his eyes. "Now, Sherlock. Fuck me."

He doesn't need any more encouragement. He begins to fuck himself on John's cock as deeply as he can, raising himself to the point that he can almost feel John start to slip out and then rocking back fluidly, taking him fast and hard. His hands grip the back of the sofa desperately for leverage, but it hardly feels like enough. He's moaning again, he's distantly aware of that, but he makes sure to keep the dog tags firmly in his mouth.

John's hands pull his hips up and down encouragingly, but it quickly becomes clear it's not enough. John sits forward and begins to push up into Sherlock, meeting him thrust for thrust, and the sudden direct contact with his prostate causes Sherlock to throw back his head and cry out, letting the dog tags slip free.

Before he can regret it, he's being flipped off the sofa onto his back on the floor, the coffee table unceremoniously shoved out of the way Then John's back on top of him, hoisting his legs unceremoniously over his shoulders and thrusting back inside, forcing him down. Sherlock submits without hesitation.

He keens and cries out, but John is relentless, penetrating him with a wildness in his eyes that Sherlock has never seen before. There's sweat running down John's neck, darkening the collar of the uniform, and Sherlock is fairly certain it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He wants to sit up and lick it, but John has him bent nearly in half, rendering him utterly incapacitated. He arches his back and moans.

This seems to spur John on even more. John, too, is crying out with every thrust, a harsh, ragged sound that Sherlock vows to commit to his Mind Palace for further inspection, as it is not one of the 246 previously categorized sounds he can recall John Watson having ever made.

All at once, it comes to a head. John grips Sherlock's hips even harder than before and pummels relentlessly into him, and suddenly, it's all too much. Sherlock is on the edge of coming.

The position of his legs on John's shoulders prevents him from reaching his own cock to attempt to squeeze it and tamp down the urge as he normally would. He cries out, but that only seems to spur John on further. 

Gathering every last ounce of his wits about him, he does his best to formulate a coherent thought, but it comes out sounding like a desperate plea.

"God, John, please, John, you have to...I'm going to...I can't, I can't, you have to let me...Christ, John, I'm begging, please come, please give it to me, I can't wait, I can't wait, come, John, please, God, please, come, come, I'm begging you, God, please..." He's mortified to find tears welling up in his eyes. He's struggling as hard as he can to fight the urge, but there's no way, it's too strong, John is too deep inside him, he can't stop it.

Then, with a strangled yell, John thrusts sharply once, twice, three times, and Sherlock feels the familiar blooming warmth of John's release inside him. John stills momentarily, then lazily rides out the aftershocks, shuddering, eyes closed and face covered in sweat.

Finally, he's finished. He opens his eyes and gazes down at Sherlock, who is trembling helplessly beneath him. "Did you come?"

Sherlock blinks. He honestly has no idea. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

John sits back and eases Sherlock's legs off his shoulders, letting them splay wide at his sides. His gaze travels to Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock's gaze follows his.

To Sherlock's own amazement, he's still hard. 

"I didn't come," he whispers, breathless.

John grins down at him, then leans in for a kiss. "Gorgeous. God, Sherlock, I knew you could do it." Sherlock smiles back dopily.

John pulls out and tucks himself back into his pants, standing as he does so. He extends a hand to Sherlock. "Come on. Bedroom."

Sherlock manages to get to his feet, but his legs feel wobbly, and the moment he's upright, the sheer urgency of his erection hits him full force. He staggers slightly, and John catches him.

"You alright?"

"Fine. Just a little...this is...intense."

"It is," John kisses him again. "You're doing so well. You going to keep being good for me?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Come on, then." John leads him down the hallway to the bedroom. He begins rummaging in the bedside drawer for something, though Sherlock (in his current state) is unable to deduce what.

"Alright. On the bed with you, facedown." John gives him a slight push and Sherlock clambers forward and lowers himself onto the mattress. The moment his cock touches the duvet, he comes.

It's so sudden and blinding and unexpected that he can't think to do anything besides rut through it helplessly, gasping as wave after wave of pleasure washes over him. He's grunting as he thrusts, the endorphins washing over his brain silencing any semblance of self-control he was still harboring there.Then as quickly as it started, it's over.

Sherlock freezes. That was...not part of the plan. Slowly, he turns his head back towards John.

John is frozen too, head cocked to the side. There can be no doubt what just happened--Sherlock is well aware that he was fairly uncouth about it, and there's a wet spot beneath him on the duvet should any further evidence be needed.

Sherlock stares at John. John stares back at him.

It occurs to Sherlock that they really don't have a precedent for this. In all the time they've been exploring with power dynamics, Sherlock has never disobeyed John, whether willfully or unwittingly. He'd never had any desire to. As such, there was no protocol here--they'd never discussed punishments of any kind, or whether there would be reprimands or a revocation of privileges. They're in completely uncharted waters.

"Did you just come?" John asks. Sherlock is well aware that John is just being deliberately obtuse here. Buying himself time.

"Um. Yes. I did."

"Did you mean to?"

"No."

"Um. Okay. Okay, uh. Well. That..."

Sherlock averts his eyes. He's too embarrassed to look at John right now, and he hates that he's making John flounder like this, after everything that John has done for him today, giving him everything he'd asked for and more...

There's a long pause. And then--

"Sherlock. Look at me."

Sherlock's gaze snaps back to John's.

"I'm not happy with you right now. What you did there, disobeying me like that while we're in this situation... That's not good, okay?"

"I know," Sherlock murmurs.

"You're such a spoiled brat," John says, almost to himself, shaking his head and turning back to the bedside table drawer. "I give you an inch, you take it a mile. What am I supposed to do with you?" With that, he turns around. He's holding the handcuffs.

It takes Sherlock's breath away. 

John is going to fix this. Clever John. Clever, perfect John. He is going to fix this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But wait! There's more! Update soon...


	3. Chapter 3

"Stand up." John's tone is cold.

Sherlock blinks up at John uncomprehendingly.

"Come on. If you think I'm going to let you lie there and soil our duvet any further, you've got anther thing coming. Stand up."

Sherlock scrambles to his feet.

"Strip the bed. I want that mess out of my sight."

Sherlock hastily rolls up the duvet and tosses it into the corner. He's still flushed and overheated from the intensity of his orgasm, but the sweat rolling down his back feels unnaturally cool under the frigidity of John's gaze.

"Get on the bed. Face up. Hands above your head. You know what this is." He holds up the handcuffs.

Sherlock assumes the position quickly. He and John have done this part often enough that his movements feel practiced, calculated and relaxed. He feels the tension drain from his body as John snaps one cuff around his left wrist, then laces the other through the slats of the headboard and snaps it to his right wrist.

"Pull for me." Sherlock struggles slightly, for show. John checks the clasps on the cuffs and then squeezes Sherlock's hands in his own, and Sherlock returns the squeeze. He's testing for restricted blood flow, Sherlock knows, and it fills him with a rising warmth to know John is being so careful with him.

"Now." John turns back to the drawer of the bedside table and resumes rummaging. Sherlock twists his head to the side, but his view of the drawer is obstructed by his own arm. He has no idea where John's going with this. "I think we can both agree that what just happened there was not good."

"No." Sherlock feels a blush rising to his cheeks. For once, it's not arousal. It feels a lot like shame.

"I very specifically instructed you not to come, and you decided you wanted to come anyway. That was a greedy, selfish thing to do."

Sherlock shivers. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not sure I entirely believe that. You seemed to enjoy it enough at the time. But here's the thing, Sherlock. If you want to come so badly, I'm not going to stop you." John's voice is low and dangerous. "In fact, I just may help you out. You want to come? I'll make you come. I'll make you come until you're really, truly sorry." With that, he turns back from the drawer, holding the vibrator in his hand.

Sherlock flinches.

John has used the vibrator on him only once before, a different time when they were experimenting with these dynamics. He'd used it in the wake of a particularly powerful orgasm. It had shortened Sherlock's refractory period to almost nothing, but the resulting second orgasm it produced had been sharp and painful, twisting the pleasure into something to be endured. 

Sherlock had loved it at the time. But today he's already come twice _and_ taken John's cock, and the idea of receiving more stimulation at the moment is overwhelming.

John appears unfazed.

"Spread your legs." Sherlock does, slowly, planting his feet on the bed. John slicks the vibrator and presses it inside him without fanfare. Sherlock tenses, preparing himself for the onslaught.

"Hey. Hey, you." Sherlock opens his eyes--again, he'd been unaware that he'd closed them. John's gazing down at him, his eyes suddenly soft and his tone accommodating. "Do you want to stop? If you're done, Sherlock, just say so. We can stop now."

"No! No. Keep going. Push me. Come on, now."

"Alright then." John's gaze glazes over with steel, and he turns his attention back to the vibrator. He flicks it on.

Sherlock howls, but manages to keep his legs spread and the vibrator inside him. John twists to kneel between his legs, then gently takes Sherlock's left thigh and presses it up to Sherlock's chest, opening him to the onslaught completely.

Sherlock grunts, and he yanks uselessly against the chain of the handcuffs. The vibrations are soft but steady, and he begins to feel the inklings of arousal pooling in his abdomen. It feels impossibly soon after his last orgasm, but he's powerless to resist.

John makes a non-committal noise and begins to drag the vibrator in and out, causing the vibrations to ebb and flow maddeningly. Sherlock is torn between wanting to thrust down onto it and pull away from it, so instead he settles for issuing another high moan and surrendering entirely, letting his body relax and go completely pliant under John's hands.

John doesn't miss his cue. Without hesitation, he ratchets up the setting on the vibrator and angles it _just so_ that it presses into Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock wails, and he suddenly feels his body coil and release. He's faintly aware that he's spattering come across his chest and abdomen, but his gaze is glued to John's face as he holds the vibrator in place with laser focus, forcing every last quiver of Sherlock's orgasm out of him with steady, persistent prods. Finally, Sherlock's cock is spent with a pitiful twitch, and John relents, turning the setting of the vibrator back to low.

But he doesn't pull it out.

Sherlock feels as though he's been hit by a ton of bricks. He's gasping for breath, his limbs feel like jelly, and he's fairly certain he's just been turned inside out. He feels impossibly sensitive, and the fact that John still has the vibrator inside him just doubles the sensation. He twists his head from side to side, overwhelmed with the pleasure and exquisite agony.

"Shhh. Shhhh. That's it, Sherlock. Gorgeous. Relax now. You're doing so well. That was fantastic. Amazing. You're incredible."

He sinks into John's praise. The vibrations within him suddenly feel further away.

He lowers his eyes to rest on John, who is still kneeling between Sherlock's legs. His left hand is holding the vibrator in place--not pushing on his prostate, not pressing in and out, just resting inside him, purring softly. John's right hand is stroking over Sherlock's side, gentling him, tuning him in to the sensation of his touch.

"John." His voice sounds almost reverent to his own ears.

John smiles down at him, then turns his head to kiss the inside of Sherlock's knee. It's sweet and tender, and Sherlock basks in the glow of his affection. John is taking care of him.

"Can you relax more for me, sweetheart?" John's voice sounds far away, but Sherlock complies. He lets his legs drop open further, and he relaxes his shoulders to melt into the bed. "Beautiful. God, that's perfect. Stay just like that for me."

Still gently holding the vibrator in place with his left hand, John reaches up with his right and pinches Sherlock's nipple. The sensation is sharp but pleasurable, and Sherlock lets out a deep moan of affirmation. John grins, and repeats the action, twisting a bit this time, and Sherlock arches up into the sensation, letting out a low rumble of arousal deep in his throat.

John is thorough. He alternates back and forth between Sherlock's nipples, working them into peaked buds, until Sherlock is shivering and covered in gooseflesh. Just when Sherlock thinks he can't take anymore, John wets his fingers and starts all over again, the moisture intensifying the sensation.

Sherlock doesn't fight it. He doesn't protest. He allows himself to bask under the ministrations of John's expert hands, surrendering himself without question. John works him over dutifully, bringing him just to the point of pain, then backing off again. 

Finally, when Sherlock begins to wonder how much more he can endure (his nipples are sore and swollen, and he's hissing through his teeth with every persisting touch), John begins to move the vibrator again.

And oh _God,_ how can he be hard again? But Sherlock is suddenly breathtakingly aware that he's glaringly erect, and the stimulation from the vibrator redirects all of his attention south. He issues a broken-off shout.

"That's it. Look at you. Hard again. God, you're unbelievable, Sherlock, I'm so lucky. Are you going to come again for me?"

Sherlock moans, arching his back wantonly. John pinches his left nipple again, and Sherlock can feel his cock jump in response.

"I asked you a question, sweetheart. Are you going to come for me like this?"

"Nnnngh. Yes. Yes, John."

"Good." With a nonchalant air, John redoubles his attention on Sherlock's nipples while simultaneously flicking the setting of the vibrator up one higher. He angles it to penetrate Sherlock more deeply, though still not touching his prostate. Sherlock keens.

His body feels strung out, as though every cell is vibrating at attention. He wants more, _more,_ he could never have enough of this, never have enough of what John is giving him. He cries out helplessly again and strains against the cuffs.

At last, John has mercy on him. Keeping his right fingers on Sherlock's left nipple, John leans forward and latches onto Sherlock's right nipple with his teeth and bites down. Simultaneously, he turns the vibrator setting up to high and angles it up, pressing directly against Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock comes, but it doesn't feel like any orgasm he's ever had before. It begins with a swift escalation in pleasure, like a standard orgasm, but then it just keeps building, wave after wave of pleasure washing over him, relentless and unwavering. He's aware that he's ejaculating, but it feels more like a long, steady stream than sporadic bursts, and he's shaken with the very intensity of it. He's notices distantly that he's crying out and babbling and begging, but John is ruthless and steady. He sucks on Sherlock's right nipple with vigor, and twists his left with renewed enthusiasm, continuing to thrust into him with the vibrator all the while.

Sherlock's orgasm recedes gradually--he's not even entirely sure himself when it ends. All he knows is that he comes to with John smiling down at him beatifically, wiping sweat-soaked curls from his forehead.

"Christ, Sherlock. That was amazing. I've never seen anything like that. You are so incredible. So good for me. Brilliant."

Sherlock is trembling, but allows himself to melt into John's touch. He closes is eyes and relaxes into the sensation of John's hand threading through his hair, stroking his face, fingers tracing his lips and eyelids.

It's not until a few moments later that he realizes the vibrator is still inside him. It's on its lowest setting, barely a faint buzz, but it's there.

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounds slurred and unsteady to his own ears.

John is lying beside him now, head propped up on his hand, peering down at Sherlock.

"Hmmm?"

"Are you...are we done?"

"If you want to be."

"Do...you want me to be?"

John gazes up and down Sherlock's body, taking in his debauched form. Sherlock shivers at the attention.

John meets his eyes again. "I think you have one more in you."

Sherlock whimpers.

"We'll take it slow, sweetheart. No rush. Do you trust me?" Sherlock nods. "Okay. Then just relax. Let me give this to you. I'll make it so good for you. Just relax now." He leans down and kisses Sherlock, slow and deep.

Sherlock surrenders to his embrace. John takes him apart slowly, kissing him thoroughly, deliberately, at an unhurried pace that makes Sherlock's head spin. John's hand is still between Sherlock's legs, holding the vibrator in place with a gentle pressure, but he doesn't let Sherlock focus on that. Instead, he redirects Sherlock's attention to his lips, his tongue, the feeling of John's body pressed against his, and oh _God,_ it is the sweetest surrender that Sherlock has ever known.

When Sherlock first learned that John could make him feel like this, take him to this place, a head space so completely beyond himself that reality became distorted, Sherlock mentally justified it by assuming that he felt that way because John could take him _beyond_ his transport. John was lifting him onto a different plane of existence, separate from his Mind Palace but still comparably transcendent.

But what he'd come to realize over time was that in reality, it was the exact opposite.

He loved this because John forced him to fully inhabit his transport. He made him _feel_ everything, _experience_ everything, from the most explosive pleasure in his cock to the lightest press of lips against his eyelids. Sherlock never felt so fully _present_ in his transport as he did in moments when he and John were doing this. It grounded him in a way that nothing else--not liquor, not drugs, not sex, not pain--ever had before. It was a sensation unlike any that he'd experienced in his life up until the moment John Watson became a part of it. And for that, Sherlock is eternally grateful.

The sensation of John's lips sucking on his neck causes his back to arch, and he hums contentedly. John works his way around his neck, suckling a string of hickeys that will surely force Sherlock to wear scarves for days. He preens internally at the thought.

After what seems like an eternity, John finally pulls away, and looks Sherlock up and down.

Sherlock's half-hard, cock resolutely attempting to rise to attention yet again, but he's nowhere near ready to come. Sherlock moans and spreads his legs. He needs this. He needs John to make him finish.

John leans down and kisses his lips one last time.

"Alright. Remember, if this gets too intense, just tell me to stop."

Sherlock nods blearily.

With that, John releases his hold on the vibrator and sits up, then rearranges himself between Sherlock's legs. He pours more lube into his left hand, then grabs the base of the vibrator again with his right and presses it in until it's fully seated. Without hesitation, he grabs Sherlock's shaft with his left hand and begins to stroke.

Sherlock all but screams and wrenches his arms against the cuffs. He hadn't realized it until now that up until that point, his cock had been entirely untouched all day. He'd been given moments of relief (against John's leg and then again on the duvet), but this is the first time he's been in John's hand all day, and it is _exquisite._

John works him expertly. His cock is shockingly sensitive, but Sherlock still hardens despite the pain. He cries out through clenched teeth.

To Sherlock's dismay, John's hand moves away from his shaft and proceeds to work its way over his balls, then press against his perineum lightly. The dual stimulation of his prostate from the vibrator within and John's fingers without is shockingly intense, and Sherlock glances down only to realize with bewilderment that he's begun to leak.

He strains helplessly against the cuffs, but they hold steady. He needs more, he wants more, it's too much but still not enough, he needs to _come,_ Christ, how can it be possible that he needs to _again_ after all of this, and what the hell has John reduced him to?

"Please! John, please. Now. I need. I need to come. Now. Please." Sherlock feels on the edge of hysterics, and he's suddenly acutely aware that there are tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. He throws his head back and snarls in frustration. "God! John! Please. I need it. Please give it to me. Please. _Please..."_

The last plea is barely a whisper, between broken breaths and shaking sobs. His body feels strung so tight he can't move, he can't see, there's only this. Only this.

John relents. He takes Sherlock's shaft in hand and strips him mercilessly, pressure only prevented from becoming pain by the copious amounts of lube. Then John switches the vibrator to its highest setting, and Sherlock distantly hears the whirring buzz of the motor as it turns into high gear, pressing deeper and deeper into him.

Then there's a pleasure unlike any he's ever experienced, from both within and without, nowhere and everywhere at once, and his body is a supernova, combusting with radiant heat. He's shouting, he knows that, but it seems unrelated to the sensation that's overtaken him, crippling his senses and shaking him to the core. He never wants it to end. He feels infinite.

And then John is over him, cradling his face in his hands, peppering him with kisses and whispering sweet words of praise. Sherlock can't bring himself to form words, but he does offer up what he feels like his most reassuring (if watery) smile, which makes John laugh and call him a dope.

The vibrator is gone and he feels strangely empty without it. His chest and stomach feel sticky and wet with come, and he's aware of the sensation of cooling lube between his thighs and arsecheeks.

John enters his field of vision again.

His uniform is slightly askew and his face is flushed, but he's otherwise unruffled.

God, he's a treasure.

"Sherlock, you with me?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Alright. Two options: we can be done now, if you want. I'll get you washed up and put to bed and you can catch up on sleep."

Sherlock doesn't respond. There's another option?

"Or, if you're up for it, I can leave you here for a bit. I remember...I remember you used to like that. When I would leave you and then come back for you later. But I won't do that now if that's not what you want."

God, John _remembers_ that? Sherlock had made him do it once before, years ago, back before the Fall. He'd assumed John had forgotten.

There's no choice in Sherlock's mind. "Leave me."

John smiles warmly. "Alright. I'm just going to get a snack and watch some telly. If you need anything, or you want to be done, you just say my name and I'll be right here for you, alright?"

"Yes John. Captain. Yes, Captain," he finishes with a smirk.

John winks at him, then disappears from the room.

Sherlock lies prone on the bed, reveling in the sensation of being thoroughly, utterly spent. He takes the time to appreciate how cool the metal of the handcuffs feels against the slowing pulse at his wrists. He marvels at the feeling of fresh air filling his lungs, the sinew between his ribs sore from heaving and clenching under the deluge of John's attentions. He shifts slightly and admires the way his come is congealing on his abdomen. He flexes his toes, marveling at how wrung-out and well-used his muscles feel in the wake of such a feat. _God,_ what John had done to him--it hardly seemed humanly possible. But it was, and he'd done it, and John had taken him there. He can hardly believe his luck.

He's not sure how much time passes as he lies contemplating his state, but the sun is considerably lower in the sky when eventually John re-enters the room. He's still in his dress uniform.

He approaches Sherlock and squeezes both of his hands. Sherlock squeezes back. Circulation normal. Blood flow unimpeded. All systems go.

John smiles down at him, then kisses him softly.

"You look gorgeous, Sherlock. How are you feeling?"

"Good, John. I'm good."

"I'm so glad." He kisses Sherlock again. Sherlock melts.

"Can I have you now?" John's voice is low and soft. Sherlock opens his eyes to meet John's own, and he sees that John appears shy, almost embarrassed. He realizes John thinks he's asking too much.

"Yes. Yes, of course, John, please."

"Really? You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Alright. Tell me...tell me if it's too much, and I'll stop."

Sherlock nods.

John disrobes slowly, deliberately, letting Sherlock feast his eyes as he removes each piece of the uniform one at a time. He hangs his uniform back on its hanger with devoted care. The simple effortlessness of the act takes Sherlock's breath away.

Before he knows it, John is naked before him, hard and wanting. Sherlock spreads his legs, offering himself. John eyes him up and down, a familiar and hungry look in his eyes. Slowly, he climbs onto the bed and hovers over him.

"Remember, if it's too much, just tell me to stop. I'll pull out and come on you instead. I won't be angry."

"Alright, John." He tilts his head back, exposing his throat to John, just the way he knows John likes. "Alright."

With that, John lines himself up and pushes inside. As he does so, he lets out a shuttering sigh, closing his eyes as a look of bliss so pure crosses his face, Sherlock suddenly feels like an unsuspecting voyeur observing it. John pauses for a moment, letting the sensation of being sheathed in Sherlock wash over him, then he slowly opens his eyes and begins to move.

He's cautious and delicate, avoiding Sherlock's prostate with careful precision so as not to overstimulate him again. Sherlock lets his body go lax and revels in the feeling of John's weight upon him.

He thinks back to when they first spoke out loud about this kink. He remembers John's words with crystal clarity: _"It turns me on when you struggle, and it turns me on even more when you submit."_ This is the submission portion. This is all for John.

On top of him, John increases his speed. He reaches one hand up and grabs the chain of the handcuffs and presses it down to meet the mattress, pinning Sherlock's hands tightly in place. Sherlock gasps lightly and relents, letting John take control.

It's easy to be like this, he thinks. To let John use him for his pleasure when he's wrung out and spent. It's so different from how they are in their everyday, so different from who they are as people, but in this moment, he cannot think of anywhere he'd rather be than submitting to one Captain John Hamish Watson in their dingy sunsoaked bedroom in their little corner of the universe on Baker Street.

John is moaning now, the sound he makes when he gets close. Sherlock focuses all of his energy on opening himself further, letting John deeper inside him, and John sinks in with renewed vigor and a lustful groan. The hand that's holding Sherlock's cuffed hands in place tightens and then John's eyes are closing and he's emptying himself in long, shuddering thrusts that seem to go on forever. Sherlock sighs beneath him and takes it all, the feeling of John's come filling him making his head swim and body shiver.

Finally John finishes and pulls out. He reaches for the key and uncuffs Sherlock, then checks his hands for signs of restricted bloodflow. Finding none, he sits back and parts Sherlock's cheeks. 

John always insists he's checking for tearing (from a strictly medical standpoint), but there's no way the world's only consulting detective could miss the way John's pupils dilate when he sees his come trickling out of Sherlock's hole. Sherlock has half a mind to surprise John with a plug at some point....but that's a thought for another day.

With a groan, John collapses onto the bed next to him, then kisses him long and deep.

"That was incredible," John murmurs, gazing at Sherlock with a look of unabashed adoration on his face.

"Indeed."

"You alright?"

"Never better." Sherlock is pretty sure he means that literally.

John throws an arm over his chest and pulls him close. He doesn't mention that Sherlock is completely smeared with come at this point--which is a sign he's pretty far gone, too. 

They doze for a while like that, in the hazy sunlight of the afternoon. Sherlock knows that soon John will make him get up, jostle him into the bath and have him scrub himself clean, and then usher him back into the bedroom where clean sheets and 14 hours of hard sleep await. But for now, there's a stillness, a peacefulness that descends, and Sherlock is powerless to fight it.

He closes his eyes, and lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that wraps up another installment of Smutty Johnlock Encounters that refused to stop stalking my brain. Until next time...


End file.
